All That Matters
by silvermisery
Summary: I know that he loves her. I know that he will never act on it; he is too much of a gentleman for that. And I know this. I know that tomorrow, I will go out and laugh as though nothing is the matter. Because he is happy, and that is all that matters. D/Hr.


A/N: Cookies to those who can guess whose POV this is from!

Disclaimer: Not Mine.

Title: All That Matters

It is the perfect date. We are in a romantic restaurant, the kind that is snobby to all but the oldest Pureblood families, even though after the War such things are frowned upon. It is of the highest class, very expensive, and I should be grateful that Draco has seen fit to take me here. In the background, sweet romantic music plays softly. Moonlight pours in through the window on the wall, painting everything with a silvery glow. Candles are flickering on the table, giving off a sweet aroma that reminds me vaguely of vanilla and cinnamon and a girl I do not want to remember. I frown. That is the last scent I want here, and I gesture to the waiter.

"Please take away these candles and replace them with something of a different scent."

The waiter steps forward, but Draco stops him. "No," he says with an inscrutable glance toward me. "Keep them." The waiter hesitates, vacillating between the two of us, but Draco is the one paying the bill, and I make no objections. I am, after all, the perfect Pureblood date. I defer to his wishes, and in return, he pays me every compliment and panders to my every whim. This is the way it is. This is the way it has always been. This is the way it will be always be. This is the way _she _could never be, and that I will be.

Draco is mine.

He is the perfect boyfriend. Sweet, charming, romantic, handsome, witty, talented, pureblooded. He never fails to remember our anniversary, or my birthday, or St. Valentines' Day, unlike that oaf Weasley, whose lack of romance Brown continually laments.

All the girls sigh over him, one in particular whom I hate. He is handsome, with perfect platinum locks that are perfect for grasping while kissing. Sweet, chaste kisses, of course, always delivered with perfect decorum. For some reason, we never experience passion, unplanned snogging in deserted corridors and broom closets. But perhaps, it is the way Purebloods are supposed to be.

He is charming. Never does he lose his poise. Always he has his façade, his perfect mask. Always.

Maybe this bothers me a little. Because after all, this is what a girlfriend is for, right? Someone in front of whom you can let down your guard, be yourself?

But he never lets it down.

Always his cold gray eyes, following me. I fear to let down my guard in front of him, always those cold grey eyes, judging me, weighing me, pondering whether I am found worthy. Never letting me in.

He takes off his mask sometimes. I have caught him at it a few times, when I have been lucky. Once while he was sleeping, and he smiled. The smile of an angel, the smile of a child. It was pure, free, without all the inhibitions of its waking self, just a smile of being happy.

I have never seen him smile like that again, except once.

He was looking at the Granger girl. I understand his looking. They have become tentative friends since the War. I myself have been civil to her, and Potter has talked to me several times. He is very sympathetic. No, I did not mind the looking.

It was the smile that followed it that first disturbed me.

He is the perfect fiancé.

Always a smile. Never has he raised his voice, his hand, his wand toward me. Whenever it is, whatever time of the night, he is there. When Millicent quarreled with me and she called me a slut and a bitch, he was there for me to cry on. When the horrid Skeeter woman wrote an unflattering tabloid about our impending marriage, he comforted me and denounced the newspaper. When the wedding suppliers accidentally mixed our orders with someone else's, he soothed my frazzled nerves.

Yet there it still is. His mask. Never has he ever come crying to me. Never has he ever asked me for anything. Never has he ever, ever shown any sign of weakness to me.

Granger, Weasley, and Potter came over the other day. We were being civil to one another, mainly for Granger and Draco's sake.

It is odd how he so fervently promotes inter-House unity.

Or maybe not, depending on how you look at it.

More people came—Theodore, Blaise, Vince and Greg, Daphne, Millicent, the Weasleys, Chang, Brown, Patil, Lovegood, Boot, MacMillan, and other year-mates. The party separated.

I excused myself to fix my eyeliner.

It was then that I heard the voices, and curious, I went to look. It was in my bedroom. Granger and Draco were sitting together. Nothing improper was going on, and their clothes were in perfect order. I did not think for one moment that Draco had cheated on me with her. He is too much of a gentleman for that. No, they were only sitting together, so close that their hands were touching, and tears were running down both their cheeks.

Two souls, come together for comfort.

I should not begrudge him that.

Yet despite all that, I could not feel but a twinge of jealousy. _I _am his fiancé. _I _should be the one he comes to for comfort. Not her.

It was the perfect wedding. White, silver, a touch of green, everywhere. The guests were well-behaved; Draco had thoughtfully performed a sobriety charm on the wine and Firewhiskey. The décor was superb; Mrs. Narcissa had helped, and she has superb taste. My dress had cost more than a Firebolt in Galleons; it was a touching little affair in white and silver. It set off my dark hair perfectly.

The weather was wonderful—cool, but not chilly. No rain.

The list was perfect; a hundred guests exactly.

The refreshments were delicious; the cake dreadfully expensive.

The entertainment was adequate.

It should have been my perfect day. After all, it is the day every girl dreams of, isn't it? When she steps up to the altar and exchanges vows with the man she loves?

Yet—and yet—

It was nothing, really. Just one glance.

Nothing more than that.

A shared look between two pairs of eyes, one silver, one chocolate.

Nothing more than that.

And yet, it was everything.

He is the perfect husband. In our twenty years of marriage, he has never forgotten an anniversary, a birthday, an—anything. He has never been late for dinner.

His work has not pulled him away from me.

How could it? He was never with me to begin with.

Contrary to belief, I am not stupid. I know very well why he married me. It was an arranged marriage.

I do not think that he hates me. Far from it, I am sure that in his cold Slytherin way, he loves me. He cares for me. He would not wish to see me dead. I even think that he would weep at my grave.

But his heart is not mine.

I have seen them. The glances, the touches, the shared pain and the anguish. Granger has married Weasley, as we all knew she would.

Oh, I do not think Draco is cheating on me. As I said before, he is too much of a gentleman for that. And Granger is too proper. Too moral.

So, for now, I am his only lover. I am the only one who has seen and shared his body.

Yet I know that Granger has him far more than I ever will.

But, in the end, I suppose it does not really matter. For he is Draco, and I love him.

I know that I love him. I know that all I want is his happiness. I have heard them. They are talking again. Always they are talking, as if by talking they could make up for all the would-have-beens should-have-beens-could-have-beens.

I know that they will come back with denied love.

I know that he will come back and smile at me.

I know that tonight in bed, he will be extra gentle to make it up to me.

I know that he will try to love me as best he can.

And I know this too.

I know that tomorrow, I will go out as if nothing is the matter.

I know that to the world, I will turn a shining face and a cheerful smile.

Because he is Draco, and he is happy, and that is all that matters.

THE END


End file.
